


More Than Enough

by dance_across



Series: Red, Yellow, Green [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Accidental Domestic Feelings, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Chris and Yuuri Swapping Victor Stories, Crying, Cuddling, Don't Worry Everyone Is Fine, Established Polyamorous Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, POV Chris, Post-Canon, Post-Makkachin, Safewords, Spanking, Surgery (off-screen), Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 17:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11190303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: “What was he like?” Yuuri asks, ever so quietly.Chris brings one hand up to stroke Yuuri’s hair. It’s soft, like always. “Who, Victor?”“Yeah. Back when you and he were—I mean, back before me.”





	More Than Enough

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists in the same universe as [After Everyone Else](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10283090), but while that one definitely provides some background that's relevant here, this story is a stand-alone. So you _can_ read that one first, if it suits your fancy, but you don't have to.
> 
> Many many thanks to [ineptshieldmaid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid) for letting me bounce ideas off you and throw bits of first draft at you.
> 
> And many many many MANY thanks to [airspaniel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel) for the same, plus that bit where you helped me figure out where the story had gone wrong, and then how to make it go right. <3

“He’ll be fine,” Chris says.

“I know,” replies Yuuri.

It’s at least the hundredth time they’ve exchanged those exact words, but throughout the day Yuuri’s response has grown duller. More automated. Less certain. It’s worrying—and Chris doesn’t enjoy being worried.

Yuuri fits his key into the lock, and opens the door.

“This isn’t his first time,” Chris continues, trailing Yuuri into the apartment. “And the last time, he made a full recovery and became world champion. Five times. Five _consecutive_ times.”

“I know.” Yuuri’s reply sounds exactly the same as before.

Chris turns the light on, because apparently Yuuri forgot to. Yuuri turns around in the middle of shedding his coat; he squints at Chris in the sudden glare. “Oh. Sorry.” Still the same dull monotone that’s been coloring his words ever since they left the hospital.

Or, rather, ever since they were gently-but-firmly _escorted_ from the hospital after Yuuri refused to leave. Visiting hours were over, they said. It didn’t matter that Yuuri was family, they said. He could come back first thing in the morning, they said.

“No worries,” Chris says now. “Go sit down. I’ll…” He casts about for something helpful, something _useful_ , that he could do. “Hey, I’ll make us some coffee.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Tea. No caffeine. Apparently I’m somehow supposed to sleep tonight.”

There it is. A little curl of sarcasm, breaking through the monotone, making Yuuri sound less like a robot, more like his usual self. Chris pounces on it, matching Yuuri’s sarcasm with his own: “Yeah, because _that_ seems likely. All right, tea it is.”

This, finally, gets a tiny smile out of Yuuri. He says, “You don’t have to make tea for me.”

Chris knows that Yuuri is probably just trying to be polite, but honestly, if Chris can’t even do something as simple as putting the kettle on so Yuuri doesn’t have to, then why is he even here?

So he tells Yuuri again to go sit down, and he heads for the cabinet where Yuuri and Victor keep their tea. It’s a large collection, gathered from around the world. A lot of the labels are in languages Chris can’t read. “No caffeine, hmm. Chamomile? Oh, here, this one’s called Sleepytime. Maybe that’ll help.”

Yuuri, hovering at the edge of the island that separates the kitchen from the living room, and noticeably still _not_ sitting down, lets out an indelicate snort. “It won’t.”

“Then which one?”

“There’s a jasmine green somewhere in there…”

“You know green tea has caffeine in it, right?” Chris says.

“Doesn’t count,” Yuuri murmurs.

Chris shrugs. He knows Yuuri is unlikely to sleep either way, so if Yuuri doesn’t think it counts, then he isn’t going to argue. He finds a box of jasmine green tea, fills the electric kettle with water, and gets out two mugs. The whole time, he’s keenly aware of Yuuri watching him, silent, but practically buzzing with nervous energy.

“Go sit down,” Chris says for a third time.

“You really don’t have to take care of me,” Yuuri says.

Chris rolls his eyes. “Sure. Because I flew here so I could _avoid_ taking care of you tonight.”

Another tiny smile tugs at Yuuri’s lips. “I thought you flew here for the sex.”

A protest rises to Chris’s lips, but he bites it back before it can escape. Because Yuuri is obviously trying to lighten the mood, and the least Chris can do is play along.

“You know me too well,” he says, crafting a sly smirk to throw Yuuri’s way. “And it was quite worth it, darling. Yesterday was _divine_.”

“Yeah, it was,” says Yuuri wistfully.

Honestly, Chris kind of can’t believe it’s only been thirty hours since he was lying between them, feeling Yuuri’s hands on his chest while Victor sucked him off. Since they made him watch as Yuuri pinned Victor to the bed and fucked him—carefully, of course, because of Victor’s knee. Since he buried his tongue in Victor’s ass, since he felt the softness of Yuuri’s hair, since he noticed, again and again, the bright way that they both looked at him…

But before he can say anything more— _hey, remember that time you choked me with your dick and I totally loved it?_ —the smile melts from Yuuri’s face. He draws in a loud, shaking breath, bracing one hand against the countertop, and…

And Chris would know what to do if it was Victor, probably. Years upon years of experience have taught him how to touch Victor the right way, to draw him out of his own head, to make him smile or laugh even when he might not want to. Yuuri, though… most of Chris’s relationship with Yuuri exists in the context of the Occasional Amazing Threesome situation that’s been happening over the past several months. It’s been seventy percent sex, twenty percent checking in about feelings before and after the aforementioned sex, and ten percent planning for the next time they can all have sex.

Tonight, there is none of that. Tonight, Chris is completely out of his depth.

So he says, again, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say, “Victor will be fine.” And Yuuri doesn’t reply, and the silence rings too loudly in Chris’s ears, so he adds, “We’ll go back first thing tomorrow morning, and he’ll be lucid by then, and he’ll be fine. We can probably even bring him home.”

This time, Yuuri finally says, “I know.”

And then he starts crying.

Chris has seen Yuuri cry before. Obviously; everyone in the figure skating world has seen Yuuri cry. It’s as commonplace as seeing Yuri Plisetsky yell at someone, or seeing Phichit Chulanont take a selfie, or seeing Chris himself two degrees shy of naked.

But Chris has never been _the only other person in the room_ during one of Yuuri’s crying jags. His legs tense with the urge to run the fuck away. But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He _can’t_. This is literally why he’s here: in case Yuuri needs somebody.

Yuuri clutches at the counter’s edge, head bowed, wiping frantically at his eyes behind his glasses.

Chris takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly.

Abandoning the tea, he goes over to Yuuri and folds him in his arms. One hand resting at the bottom of his ribcage, the other at his neck. Yuuri tenses at the contact, and for a second Chris is sure he just made the wrong move… but then Yuuri relaxes again. Even puts his head down on Chris’s shoulder. Chris can feel wetness seeping into the fabric of his shirt, and he is relieved. He can do this. He can.

It’s actually kind of peaceful, holding Yuuri like this, rubbing his back and letting him cry—but it lasts for maybe twenty seconds, tops, because then the kettle boils, and Yuuri tenses up and pulls back.

“Sorry,” he says, adjusting his glasses, not quite meeting Chris’s eyes.

“Don’t be sorry,” Chris says, but Yuuri doesn’t even seem to hear him. He pushes past Chris and into the kitchen, busying himself with finishing the tea that Chris started. Chris thinks about insisting on doing it himself, but Yuuri doesn’t look like he’d appreciate the interruption. So he keeps quiet. That’s fine. Maybe Yuuri’s one of those people who likes having something to do. A tiny, easily-achievable goal in the face of the huge thing looming over them.

Chris, in Yuuri’s place, would probably be on his second bottle of wine by now. But, hey, to each his own.

Yuuri finishes making the tea, as Chris lingers uselessly by the counter. And then they settle on the couch, where Chris sits uselessly in the corner. He sprawls his limbs out, resting one socked foot on the coffee table in exactly the way Victor hates. Because if he acts like he doesn’t feel awkward, all the awkwardness will magically disappear, right?

Yuuri curls into the opposite corner of the couch. Knees drawn up against his chest. Shoulders hunched. He’s a tiny ball of tension, ready to explode. But at least he’s started drinking his tea; maybe that will relax him. Chris sets his aside. It’s far too hot, still.

Yuuri eyes him over the rim of his mug. “You really don’t have to stay. It’s late. And I’m not going to be very good company.”

Chris glances at the wall clock. It _is_ late. Nearly midnight. And he could probably still get a hotel room nearby.

“Do you _want_ me to go?” Chris asks, feeling sort of hopeful. And then feeling like an asshole for feeling hopeful.

“No, it’s just…” Yuuri’s eyes lower. He holds his mug close against his chest, like a shield over his heart. “You seem uncomfortable. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

So Yuuri can tell. Great. Just great. Chris is terrible at this. Completely terrible, and kind of an asshole, and they _really_ should have asked someone else to stay here for the week. Chulanont, maybe. Chulanont knows Yuuri better than Chris does, and he’s good at dealing with people, and—

“Chris?”

“Sorry,” says Chris quickly. “I… no, I’m not uncomfortable. But, listen, if you’d rather be alone—”

“No.” The word is quiet but firm. Yuuri still doesn’t look at him, but he continues: “Stay. If… if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Chris says. And he tries to mean it. He really, really tries.

Yuuri turns his mug around and around in his hands. Chris doesn’t know how he can stand the heat, but Yuuri clutches at it like a lifeline. He sips again. And again. And he says, “I saw this video.”

“Oh yeah?”

Yuuri nods. Pushes his glasses up his nose. “It wasn’t the real thing. It was just… just animation. Someone recreated it. So you can see exactly what the process is.”

Dread coils in Chris’s gut. “What process?” he asks, even though he’s horribly sure that he knows the answer already. “What did they recreate?”

“The surgery,” Yuuri says, shoulders hunching, voice lowering. “ACL reconstruction. It showed the whole—”

“Yuuriiiii, you didn’t,” Chris sighs.

“—the whole process, and the recovery process afterwards, and it showed everything that could go wrong, and—”

“Yuuri!” Chris says, and Yuuri’s head snaps up, brown eyes meeting Chris’s. “Why the hell would you watch something like that?”

Yuuri swallows hard. “I wanted to know,” he whispers. “Because… because what if something…”

“Nothing went wrong,” Chris says firmly. “You heard it just as well as I did. The surgery is _over_. Everything went as smoothly as possible. No complications. He’ll be _fine_.”

“I know,” Yuuri says automatically. But then he worries his bottom lip between his teeth, and he adds, “But what if he’s not?”

“He will be,” Chris insists. This, at least, he’s getting good at. He has no idea how to make Yuuri _fucking relax_ , but he definitely knows how to insist that Victor will be fine. 

“Things can go wrong in recovery too,” Yuuri says. “Not just in surgery.”

“I know that,” Chris says. “Victor knows it, too. But this isn’t his first time under the knife. Hell, _all_ of us have been where he is.”

Yuuri looks down into his tea again. He says, softly, “I haven’t.”

Chris blinks at him, and… oh. Okay, yes. This makes sense. Yuuri’s worried about the surgery because he’s never been through anything like it himself.

“Well, not all of us come out of competitive skating with only a few bumps and bruises to show for it,” Chris says, his voice as light and teasing as he can make it.

Yuuri glares. “I’ve sprained my wrist.”

“Ooh, let’s not forget the sprained wrist,” says Chris.

“Twice.”

“Two sprained wrists!” Chris says. “However did you survive?”

“Oh, shut up.” Yuuri’s still glaring as hard as he can, but Chris can see the beginnings of a smile just behind his eyes. At least, he _hopes_ that’s what he’s seeing.

Just in case he’s wrong, though, Chris shuts up.

Yuuri glares a moment longer, then gives up the pretense, letting the smile creep in and soften his face. Thank god.

After a moment, and after a few more sips of tea, Yuuri says, “I just keep thinking, you know, what if he never skates again? What if he never _walks_ again? And I know it’s stupid. This is worst-case-scenario stuff, and it’s unlikely even for someone who’s _not_ in peak physical condition—”

“Which Victor is,” Chris puts in.

“Which Victor is,” Yuuri agrees. “So it’s really a one-in-a-billion chance that he won’t be completely fine, or at least _mostly_ fine, but…”

“But you won’t know until it happens?” Chris suggests.

Yuuri pauses. Nods. Sips his tea again.

Chris remembers that he has tea, too. He reaches for the mug, blows on it, takes a sip. It’s bitter. He makes a face.

Yuuri laughs quietly. “You let it steep too long. Sorry. I should’ve said something.”

“It’s fine,” says Chris, and immediately feels like an idiot. _Fine, fine, fine_. He’s like a parrot with a one-word vocabulary. He has to do better than this.

What would Victor do, if he were here and Yuuri needed comforting? Aside from, you know, not saying _everything’s fine_ every five minutes?

“Hey,” Chris says, setting his mug aside. “Come here.”

Yuuri looks up at him, a silent question on his face. Which is fair, because usually when Chris says _come here_ to Yuuri, the situation is… well, different, to say the least. Usually there’s far less clothing involved. And usually one of them, or both of them, is about to get wrecked. And usually, also, Victor is there.

No—not usually. Always. Victor is always there.

“You look like you’re about to combust,” Chris explains. “Let me… I don’t know, let me give you a massage. Or something.”

Yuuri eyes him. Not distrustfully or anything, but he seems… unsure. About what, Chris doesn’t know. So he takes a guess:

“I’m not trying to get you into bed, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He says it with a smile, like it’s a joke, but really it’s not a joke at all. He has no intention of having sex with Yuuri while Victor is in the hospital, even if it’s just a routine post-surgery overnight stay.

Or, well, more specifically, Chris has no intention of _initiating_ sex with Yuuri while Victor is in the hospital. He’ll do the sex thing if that’s what Yuuri wants, but… but he flew here to give Yuuri whatever he needs tonight. And he sincerely doubts that what Yuuri needs is Christophe Giacometti’s dick. Which isn’t a thought he’s ever had, about literally anyone. But apparently there’s a first time for everything.

“I wasn’t worried about that,” Yuuri replies with a little smile.

He sets his tea down on the coffee table and moves across the couch, right into Chris’s space. Chris adjusts himself, making space for Yuuri between his legs, taking Yuuri’s thin, strong shoulders in his hands. He starts slow, thumbs kneading gently into the muscle just below Yuuri’s neck. Already he can feel Yuuri relaxing, just a little.

“Victor used to do this,” Yuuri murmurs. “Back when he was coaching me, before we ever… before…” He stops. Sighs. “It was nice.”

“I bet it was,” Chris says.

Yuuri bends his head forward, groaning a little as Chris digs his fingers in deeper. After a moment he says, “Not that he _stopped_ after we… but… it just turned into something different.”

“Yeah?” he says, concentrating on the movement of his hands. On the shape of Yuuri’s muscles beneath them. Why didn’t he think of this sooner? Shoulder massages. Chris is _good_ at shoulder massages. 

“Yeah,” Yuuri says. “He… he’d… sorry, no, I didn’t mean to…”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Chris says, kneading, kneading.

“Him and me,” Yuuri says, relaxing a little bit more. “You don’t need to hear all that.”

“I don’t mind,” says Chris. And means it, even. Any topic that gets Yuuri talking, right now, is a welcome topic indeed.

And besides, how could he possibly mind hearing about Yuuri’s sex life with Victor, when he actually gets to be part of it nowadays?

“It used to be, you know, just this. Just regular massages.” Yuuri breathes deeply, letting Chris’s fingers in as best he can. “My shoulders, or my calves if they were cramped after training. My… um, my thighs… sometimes, and I really should’ve suspected by then, right?” Yuuri laughs softly at himself. “I didn’t, though. I just thought he was one of those weird white people with no sense of personal space.”

“He _is_ a weird white person with no sense of personal space,” says Chris, who is also a weird white person with no sense of personal space.

“Well, sure,” says Yuuri. “But I’m saying I should’ve suspected it was _more_. Especially when he started massaging my feet, and… and… well, you know.”

Chris does know. Chris, _of all people_ , knows that Victor has a thing about Yuuri’s feet.

“He’d…” Yuuri breathes, slowly, deeply, in and out, but doesn’t tell Chris to ease up. “He’d start there, work his way up, and…”

Chris can picture it. Victor, probably on his knees, worshiping every inch of skin that Yuuri cares to bare. Victor used to be that way with Chris, too—but it was performative back then. It isn’t performative with Yuuri. Exactly the opposite, actually. It’s so real that sometimes Chris can’t quite believe it’s happening in front of him.

“And what?” Chris asks.

“And he’d… he…” There’s a hitch in Yuuri’s voice now. “He’d be kneeling, and…”

Yuuri trails off, and Chris smiles to himself. His mental picture was right. Victor, kneeling. Yuuri, letting him kneel.

Then he realizes that Yuuri has started crying again.

Chris’s hands stop their movement, instead clutching at Yuuri’s shoulders—and then wrapping around him when that doesn’t seem enough. One of Yuuri’s hands comes up to clutch at Chris’s forearm, and that’s when Chris asks, “What is it, lovely? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, no, it’s so dumb,” Yuuri says, swiping furiously at his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. “Sorry.”

“Come on,” Chris says, and impulsively presses a kiss to the back of Yuuri’s neck. “It’s not dumb.”

“It is,” Yuuri insists.

“Tell me anyway,” Chris says.

“I, I know it’s”—Yuuri’s voice hitches, and he breathes himself through it—“it’s not the same as skating or… or _walking_ or anything, but… but he loves doing that.”

 _Doing that._ Chris has to backtrack through the conversation to figure out what Yuuri means. Victor starting with a foot massage, working his way up Yuuri’s body, initiating sex in a way that’s probably slow and gentle and loving and—

No. That’s not what Yuuri means. He means Victor, kneeling.

He means that Victor is, at this very moment, recovering from knee surgery.

“Ohh, Yuuri,” Chris says, into the skin of Yuuri’s neck.

“I told you it was dumb,” Yuuri murmurs. “He might not _walk_ again, and here I am, worrying about… god, I’m the worst husband. I’m the absolute worst.”

“You aren’t,” Chris says firmly. “And he’ll be walking again within a month. I guarantee it.”

Yuuri doesn’t reply. Not in words, anyway. Instead of saying anything, he lets his spine soften, lets himself slope back until he’s resting flush against Chris’s chest.

Chris tightens his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders. He puts his nose into Yuuri’s hair. He’s never held Yuuri like this before. Sucked him off? Sure. Fingered him while _Victor_ sucked him off? Absolutely. But this? Chris isn’t usually around for this stuff. The holding stuff, the being-there stuff, the _domestic_ stuff. This is Victor’s domain.

Chris moves his left arm, sneaking it under Yuuri’s arm so he can rest his hand on Yuuri’s stomach. The other is still splayed over Yuuri’s heart. It’s weird. It’s intimate. He should probably move his hands, let Yuuri go—

But Yuuri breathes into him.

“Okay?” Chris says, tentative.

Yuuri breathes again, long and deep. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I… thanks.”

“Pleasure,” says Chris, feeling so, so relieved.

Yuuri puts his head back on Chris’s shoulder, and he closes his eyes, and he breathes. And breathes some more. After a little while, Chris wonders if Yuuri is about to fall asleep on him—or if he already has. He decides that he doesn’t mind.

But then, with eyes still closed and his cheek less than an inch away from Chris’s, Yuuri asks, ever so quietly, “What was he like?”

Chris brings one hand up to stroke Yuuri’s hair. It’s soft, like always. “Who, Victor?”

“Yeah. Back when you and he were—I mean, back before me.”

Yuuri sounds younger than he usually does. Or at least less sure of himself, which, for some stupid reason, makes Chris feel _more_ sure of himself. He keeps stroking Yuuri’s hair, keeps feeling Yuuri’s breath rise and fall beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“He was…” Chris searches for the right words. “Luminous. You know? Beautiful. And impatient, and reckless, and kind of a diva. I mean, you’ve seen the videos, haven’t you?”

It’s a question, but it’s not. Of course Yuuri’s seen the videos. Chris knows— _everyone_ knows, at this point—that Yuuri’s crush on Victor started over a decade before they ever met in person.

“Mmhmm,” says Yuuri. His eyes flutter open again, and he looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t mean that, though. I mean off the ice.”

Oh. Yeah, of course.

“You mean in bed?” Chris guesses, smiling.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says.

“Beautiful, impatient, reckless, and kind of a diva,” Chris says.

Yuuri laughs.

“I mean it,” says Chris, encouraged by the sound. “He was an absolute _princess_ when we started hooking up. Although, to be fair, so was I.”

Yuuri lifts his head and twists his torso around, just enough to meet Chris’s eyes. “So you’re saying neither of you has changed at all.”

Something loosens in Chris’s chest. Yuuri, wearing that sly expression of his, gently poking fun at him. This, Chris knows how to deal with, even without Victor being there.

“So mean,” Chris says with a pout. “Victor and I are both mature, responsible adults now.”

“Sure,” Yuuri says indulgently. “ _Sure_ you are.”

That’s when he twists the rest of his body around, too, until he’s kneeling between Chris’s thighs, socked feet dangling over the edge of the couch. It’s a move that should probably be awkward; the fact that it somehow _isn’t_ makes Chris certain that Yuuri has done this before. With Victor, he’s done exactly this.

Then, Yuuri kisses him.

It’s slow and tentative, hungry and questioning. Chris takes hold of Yuuri’s shoulders and draws him gently away, so he can answer: “Probably we shouldn’t.”

Yuuri swallows. Looks down. Then up again, with a fierceness in his brow that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Why not?”

It’s a very good question. Honestly, Chris isn’t even sure why he just said that. He’s here to take care of Yuuri. He’s here to give Yuuri whatever he needs. So why—?

Actually, no. He knows why. And it’s the simplest, most obvious answer in the world: Chris and Yuuri have never, in all the months they’ve been sleeping together, had sex without Victor present.

Not because they’re not allowed. It’s been agreed, explicitly and often, that Chris can sleep with Yuuri outside of their trio arrangement—just like he can, and does, sleep with Victor. It just… hasn’t happened yet, with Yuuri. Chris has recently started wondering if it might never happen at all.

So he tells Yuuri the truth: “Because he’s not here.”

Yuuri tilts his head a little to the side, considering. Then he gives Chris a little smile and says, “He’d love hearing about it, though.”

There’s something about that smile. Something calculated, or calculating. Chris isn’t sure his brain likes it—but his dick _definitely_ does. He shivers.

Yuuri goes on: “We could give him a full play-by-play when we bring him home tomorrow…”

A grin tugs at Chris’s lips. “Or a reenactment,” he says. Because Victor _would_ enjoy something like that. “With costumes.”

“We could give him a bucket of popcorn,” says Yuuri, one finger idly reaching out to trace Chris’s collarbone.

“He’d heckle us, but we wouldn’t be allowed to break character,” says Chris, letting his hands come to rest on Yuuri’s hips.

“He’d… he…” Yuuri’s breath catches, and a shadow passes over his face. His smile is gone.

“Hey, it’s all right. He’ll be fine,” Chris says, for what must be the thousandth time.

Yuuri looks up at him, wetness swimming in his eyes. But this time, instead of saying _I know_ , he sniffles a little and says, “Tell me more. About before.” One of his hands has started fiddling with the top button of Chris’s shirt.

 _Before what?_ Chris nearly says, and then remembers. More about Victor. About who he was, before Yuuri.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

A tiny line appears between Yuuri’s brows. It’s almost a frown, but not quite. “Was he always…”

Yuuri doesn’t finish the sentence, and he’s still fiddling with that button.

“Always what?” Chris asks.

Yuuri looks up again, his brown eyes deep and liquid. “He likes pain,” Yuuri says, almost whispering. “When I pull his hair, or when I hit him or tie him up. He loves it.”

Chris nods, even though it’s a laughably huge understatement. Victor doesn’t just love it when Yuuri’s dominant side comes out to play. Love isn’t nearly a strong enough word for the adoration, the _worship_ that radiates from Victor when their sex turns rough.

And that’s just when Chris is _there_. He can’t even begin to imagine how intense things get when it’s just the two of them, alone.

“That’s what I mean,” Yuuri says. “Has he always been like that?”

“At least as long as I’ve known him,” Chris replies honestly. “We used to take turns, see how far we could push each other.” He feels a grin tugging at his mouth. “I was the one who taught him about safewords.”

“Green, yellow, red,” Yuuri murmurs. His fingers tighten, and Chris’s button pops open. Yuuri moves his hand down to the next one. “He and I take turns sometimes, too.”

Chris’s eyebrows shoot up. This is surprising. In all the months they’ve been sleeping together, the three of them, Chris has never seen Yuuri submit. Not to him, not to Victor, not even when he’s bottoming. _Especially_ not then. It never even occurred to Chris to question it; he just figured Yuuri was into being in charge.

“You… you like pain, too?” Chris asks. “Is that what you’re saying?”

Yuuri works the second button free, and moves down to the third. Chris doesn’t stop him.

“I like instructions,” Yuuri says softly. “I like not having to think, sometimes.”

Oh. Oh, all right. This is starting to make sense—and it’s starting to seem like less of a completely strange idea, too, now that there’s a reason for it. It might be exactly what Yuuri needs, after the day he’s had. All those hours in the hospital, waiting for news while Chris tried and failed to distract him with card games, with cute animal videos, with anything at all.

“Is that what you want from me?” Chris asks. “Instructions, so you don’t have to think anymore tonight?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath. Pops the third button free, then snakes his hand under the fabric of Chris’s shirt, cool fingers brushing at the hot skin that covers Chris’s heart. He shakes his head, and he looks up again, and he says:

“I want you to hit me.”

Chris blinks stupidly at him. “Sorry, I… you want me to—?”

“Hit me,” Yuuri says softly, firmly. “The way you hit Victor.”

Chris locks eyes with Yuuri, who’s wearing the kind of serious expression he usually reserves for the moments right before his performances.

They hit Victor _together_ , usually. This is a thing they’ve shared for months, now: a mutual love of seeing Victor writhe in pleasure as their palms leave spots of red on his pale, pale skin. Sometimes they act in tandem; sometimes they take turns. Sometimes they compare techniques, using Victor’s body as a canvas on which they can demonstrate for each other.

Victor, for his part, loves being a thing that Chris and Yuuri can share that way. He _loves_ it. He tells them so, as often as he can.

And Yuuri has seen what Chris is capable of, up close and personal. Which means he knows exactly what he’s asking for.

“You want to tell me where?” Chris asks.

Yuuri shakes his head, eyes lowering a little. His thumb rubs lightly over Chris’s chest. “I don’t want to be in charge tonight.”

So, Chris was right. Yuuri doesn’t want to think; he wants to feel. That’s just fine. That’s good. It’s a relief, actually—because while Chris can technically do the tea-making and couch-cuddling and shoulder-massaging, what he’s _good_ at is the other part. The part Yuuri’s asking for now.

The angle is a little weird, but Chris tries it anyway: pulls his hand back and delivers a flat-palmed slap to Yuuri’s left asscheek. Yuuri’s body goes rigid with the shock of it, shoulders drawing up, eyes widening, breath sucking in. He stares at Chris for one long millisecond—and he nods.

Chris takes hold of Yuuri’s chin, studying his eyes for any sign that he’s uncomfortable. Finding none, he asks, “Safewords?”

Normally, he wouldn’t ask. The three of them have been using the same set of safewords since the very first night they all slept together. But this is a new situation for them both. New situations, even with familiar partners, always require a little more checking in than usual.

“Green, yellow, red,” Yuuri whispers.

“Good.” Still holding Yuuri’s chin, Chris delivers another slap to Yuuri’s ass. He can feel the moment Yuuri’s jaw clenches. He can hear the hiss of Yuuri’s breath, drawn in through his teeth.

“Green?” he asks.

Yuuri swallows hard. “Green.”

Another slap. Another. Chris lets go of Yuuri’s face. Another. Another.

“Harder,” says Yuuri.

So Chris hits him harder. Yuuri bites his bottom lip and groans. Another, and Yuuri bends forward, burying his face in the crook of Chris’s shoulder, murmuring, “Harder.”

Chris hits him again. Again. He switches hands: again, again, again. Yuuri’s body tightens with each slap, and his breath hits Chris’s neck in bursts. “Harder,” he keeps saying, until finally he lifts his head and says, “I _know_ you can go harder than that.”

Yuuri’s gaze is cool, almost judgmental. Chris has to fight to suppress a laugh; Yuuri might want to submit tonight, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy for him.

“Not at this angle,” Chris replies.

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “Then tell me what to do to _fix_ the angle.”

“Brat,” Chris says, and leans forward to kiss him before he can answer. It’s hard and commanding, the way Chris kisses tonight, and at first Yuuri tenses against it. But then, slowly, he seems to remember what he asked for. What he asked Chris to be. And he relaxes.

“Get up,” Chris says as he breaks the kiss. “Take your clothes off.”

Yuuri complies immediately, heaving himself off of Chris in one fluid motion, sparing only a quick glance at the windows—and the blinds that cover them—before he starts pulling his shirt off.

The shirt goes first and, god, Yuuri’s chest really is a thing of beauty. Slim, with the kind of understated musculature that might easily go unnoticed next to people like Victor—or people like Chris. Thin shoulders. A slight softness around his waist, ever-present since his retirement. Small, dusky nipples.

Chris reaches up and pinches one.

Yuuri yelps. And Chris pinches the other one. He loves doing this. Yuuri has the most sensitive pair of nipples Chris has ever encountered—well, on anyone male, at least.

“Should I…?” Yuuri gestures vaguely downwards, toward his jeans, as Chris rolls the little nubs between his fingers a few more times. “Should I keep going, or…?”

Chris recognizes his hesitance for what it is: a desire to please, to obey. This is Yuuri, trying to submit.

So Chris pulls his hands away, lifts one eyebrow, and says, “Did I tell you to _stop_?”

“No, all right, sorry,” Yuuri says quickly, and unzips his jeans. Pulls them, along with his underwear, down to his ankles, and then off. He leaves his socks on, which is weird, since the apartment is warm. Too warm, if anything. But aside from that, he is now completely naked, looking down at Chris with a wild kind of apprehension in his eyes. His cock still hangs soft between his legs, but the head has begun to swell, to peek out of the foreskin. It looks utterly delicious. As it always does.

Chris Giacometti has seen many, many cocks in his life. He is something of a connoisseur. And Yuuri’s has recently become one of his favorites.

 _Will you let me touch you?_ Chris almost asks, because asking is second nature to him. Asking is what leads to people saying yes. He bites back the question just in time, though, because tonight isn’t about Chris asking for things, or Yuuri telling him yes or no. Tonight is different.

Chris reaches out and wraps his hand around Yuuri’s cock, which earns him a tiny _mm!_ sound. The skin is soft and velvety under his fingers, and he can feel it twitching slightly in response to his touch. He uses his grip to tug Yuuri forward, until Yuuri’s between his knees again. Standing, though, this time. And biting his lip again. His cheeks are flushed.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” says Chris, with Yuuri’s cock still trapped in his hand. “As soon as I let go of this pretty dick of yours, you are going to get a towel, because we both know how Victor feels about the furniture.”

Yuuri laughs quietly; Chris takes this as agreement.

“You are going to put the towel over the arm of the couch.” Chris pats the arm in question. “Because that’s going to be what holds you up when you bend over for me. Feet on the floor, elbows on the couch. Then I’m going to spank you as hard as you want. Understand?”

Yuuri nods, wide-eyed.

“Words, Katsuki,” says Chris, giving Yuuri’s cock a squeeze, making him shudder. “I said, do you understand?”

Yuuri nods again, this time adding, “Yes. Green. Yes.”

“Good,” says Chris, and leans over to press a single closed-mouthed kiss to the very tip of Yuuri’s cock, right where the head peeks out. Yuuri makes another tiny noise, and touches one hand to the crown of Chris’s head. Lightly, though. Not at all like the way he usually touches. Almost as if he’s not sure he’s allowed. It’s sweet.

Chris lifts his head up again, gives Yuuri a wink, and lets him go.

Without a moment wasted, Yuuri mutters, “Towel,” and darts toward the bathroom. Chris watches him go, slightly dazed. This Yuuri—Yuuri who’s ready to submit to him—this Yuuri is… he’s…

It’s not _jarring_ , exactly, to see this side of Yuuri. But the newness of it, especially after the hospital waiting room day they’ve had, makes Chris feel slightly untethered. This is time out of time. It doesn’t feel entirely real.

Yuuri returns, towel clutched against his chest. Quickly, efficiently, he unfolds it and drapes it over the arm of the couch—and then, with a quick glance at Chris, he drapes his own body over the towel. Feet on the floor. Elbows on the couch. Just as Chris instructed.

“Good, Yuuri,” Chris says—and he isn’t sure, but he swears he can hear Yuuri breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

As he moves around to the side of the couch, he touches one hand to Yuuri’s head: a warm echo of the way Yuuri touched him just a moment ago. He trails his fingers along the elegant curve of Yuuri’s spine, tracing the line until it disappears into the cleft between his cheeks. He’s tempted to follow it further, to chase the heat of Yuuri’s body until he can burrow his way inside. Not now, though. Not yet. For now, he spreads the fingers of both hands wide, palming the twin muscles of Yuuri’s ass.

Chris considers himself a connoisseur of asses, too. And Yuuri Katsuki has an objectively perfect one. Chris started thinking so well before he started seeing it naked on a regular basis—well before he and Yuuri really knew each other at all. He feels a flash of gratitude, as he often does, that he’s allowed to appreciate it up close and personal these days. He digs his fingers into the muscle a little, just hard enough to make Yuuri gasp.

“Mmm,” he says. “Yes. I hope that husband of yours tells you, _frequently_ , what an absolutely glorious ass you have.”

This, normally, is where Yuuri would come back at him with some delightfully sarcastic reply. Now, there’s just a pause. A pause in which Chris feels, very keenly, Victor’s absence.

“Just… just do it,” Yuuri says.

So, no banter tonight. That’s fine. Chris supposes he’s just lucky that Yuuri ended up wanting anything sexual at all.

He repositions himself, pressing the flat of his hand in the center of Yuuri’s ass. Equal weight on both cheeks. Exactly where he intends to strike. “Green?”

“Green,” replies Yuuri.

And Chris lets him have it. Five strikes in a row, with a not-insignificant amount of power behind them. By the end, Yuuri is breathing hard and fast, his back rising and falling with it. Chris rests his hand on the reddening skin: a short respite from the impact.

“Come on.” Yuuri’s voice has gone thin. “Harder.”

Harder than _that_? Damn.

Chris pulls back and strikes him again.

“Harder,” Yuuri insists.

Chris strikes.

“Harder,” says Yuuri.

Chris strikes.

“ _Harder_ ,” says Yuuri.

Chris strikes. The slap of his palm against Yuuri’s skin has a _crack_ to it now.

But again: “Harder, harder.” Yuuri’s voice is wobbling now; he sounds near tears again. Which could be fine. Catharsis is probably what he’s aiming for, after all, and in Chris’s experience catharsis rarely happens without a bit of crying.

Still, he has to check: “Green?”

“ _Harder_ ,” Yuuri replies. There’s grit in the word now. A gasp, just barely contained.

“Yuuri,” Chris says sharply. “I asked you a question. Answer me. Green?”

“For _fuck’s_ sake, yes, green,” Yuuri says, nearly hysterical. He is shaking now, both his fists clenched and pressed into the couch cushion. When Chris hesitates, he says again, “ _Green_. Come on.”

So Chris strikes again—harder—and this time he hears a sob escape Yuuri’s throat.

But he still says, “Harder.” He still says, “Green.”

Chris puts a hand on Yuuri’s back, just above the bottom of his ribcage. “Breathe, lovely,” he says.

“I _am_ breathing,” says Yuuri, but tries to slow and deepen his breaths anyway. To calm himself down.

“Good,” Chris says.

“Keep going,” says Yuuri.

He may be breathing right, but he’s still shaking, still clenching his fists. Maybe this is how he gets when he submits.

Or maybe he only submits when he needs something to get him this way.

 _Catharsis_ , Chris thinks, and spanks Yuuri again, as hard as he can.

A long, low sob. “Harder.”

So Chris tries. This time, the impact earns him a full-throated howl.

_Catharsis. He needs this. He needs you._

“H-harder,” says Yuuri.

Chris can’t go any harder; it’s just not possible. So instead he opts for two strikes, right in a row. Yuuri’s knees buckle as he keens into the couch cushion.

“More, come on,” Yuuri says. He’s definitely crying now, there’s no mistaking it.

Chris strikes twice again. One of Yuuri’s socked feet slips backward on the hardwood floor, and he struggles to get himself properly supported again. Then: “Harder.”

Another two strikes.

“H-har—” Yuuri can’t even get the word out.

“Yuuri,” says Chris.

Yuuri sniffs, loud and wet. “Don’t… don’t stop. Don’t.”

“Yuuri—”

“I said don’t _stop_ ,” Yuuri sobs. “Give me more. I can take it. I deserve it. Come on…”

Chris’s heart leaps into his throat. He drops his hands, stepping back. _I deserve it_? What the hell?

“Come on, Chris,” Yuuri continues, his voice thick and shaky. “Green. Green.”

Chris looks at the beautiful man in front of him, draped over the arm of the couch, reduced to a quivering pile of reddened skin and shaken nerves. The man he was supposed to be taking care of.

_I deserve it._

Chris has fucked up. He has fucked this up _so badly._

“Red,” he says quietly.

Red, for stop.

“What?” Yuuri says, his voice high and reedy. “No, you can’t stop, you—”

“I said red, Yuuri.” Chris puts a hand on Yuuri’s back. He makes himself breathe. He makes himself _not get angry_. “I’m ending this. Come on, lovely. Get up.” A pause. “Can you get up?”

Yuuri pushes himself up on shaking arms, head bowed, chest still heaving. Chris guides him the rest of the way to standing, whereupon Yuuri immediately circles back to the couch and sits on it, cross-legged on the very same cushion he was just crying into. He hides his face in his hands.

Chris watches him for a long moment. Yuuri’s elbows are pressed into his chest, like he wants to hide the entire top half of his body with only his arms. The bottom half, though, is painfully bare. His belly rises and falls too rapidly to be comfortable. His lovely cock hangs forgotten between his legs, even softer than before Chris began hitting him—which Chris feels like an asshole for noticing. Especially since his own cock is embarrassingly hard inside his jeans. Not like he can help it; it’s hard _not_ to associate spanking with sex, after all these years. But still.

He should go over to the couch. Sit with Yuuri. Help him breathe. But before he can make himself do it, Yuuri looks up at him, anger hardening his red-rimmed eyes.

“You didn’t have to stop,” he says. “I was fine until you stopped.”

 _You were absolutely not fine_ , Chris almost says, but doesn’t. The way Yuuri’s being right now, that’ll only lead to a fight. So instead he opts for a different truth: “Well, _I_ wasn’t fine.”

“ _You_ weren’t fine?” Yuuri says. Thunderclouds gather in his expression. “I was the one getting hit.”

“Yeah, and I was the one hitting you,” Chris says.

“Since when do you have a problem with hitting people?” Yuuri shoots back.

“Since the people I’m hitting don’t bother telling me _why I’m hitting them,_ ,” Chris says. He’s raising his voice. He can’t bring himself to care. “I thought I was getting into a scene about pain, plain and simple. Victor likes it because it relaxes him, so you wanted to try it, and I thought, hey, good idea, because god knows you needed some relaxing after the shitty day you’ve had. That’s what I thought was happening—”

“That _is_ what was happening,” interrupts Yuuri.

“—but then you said you deserve it,” Chris continues, fixing Yuuri with a stare. “What did you mean by that?”

“I…” Yuuri trails off, blinking fast. “I didn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“Yuuri.”

“I was just saying stuff,” Yuuri insists, glaring up at Chris. “Don’t you ever just _say_ stuff when you’re… you know…”

“Getting pounded?” Chris suggests.

Yuuri nods. He has the look of someone who’s completely sure he’s about to prove his point.

“Sure, all the time,” Chris says. “And if what I say makes my partner uncomfortable, they tell me so, and we stop.”

Yuuri opens his mouth. Closes it again.

That’s when Chris finally sits down beside him. It’s weird, being fully clothed next to a completely-naked Yuuri. But Yuuri doesn’t mention it.

Chris puts a hand on Yuuri’s knee. “Was I supposed to be punishing you?”

“No!” Yuuri practically shouts, as he launches himself off the couch. His glare is far more effective, it turns out, when it’s coming from above instead of below. Even with his eyes as puffy as they are, even with his cheeks still streaked with tears. “You were supposed to be _hitting_ me! And don’t try and tell me you weren’t getting off on it, because you obviously were.”

He makes a sharp gesture at Chris’s crotch, where his erection is painfully obvious—then seems to realize, finally, that he himself is still naked. Swiping the towel from the arm of the couch, he wraps it around his waist and stalks away, back toward the kitchen.

It’s a moment before Chris moves because… well, because frankly, he’s a little stunned. Sure, spanking Yuuri had turned him on, but for Yuuri to say so, in _that_ tone of voice, is…

Chris heaves a sigh, gets up, and heads for the kitchen. There, he finds Yuuri, hands braced on the countertop, head bowed, eyes squeezed shut. Just like before. It possible he wants to be left alone—or it’s possible he wanted to see if Chris would care enough to follow him. Chris honestly doesn’t know Yuuri well enough to tell the difference.

But, fuck it. After what’s just happened between them, he’s done treating Yuuri with any kind of delicacy.

“We can talk about this here, or we can talk about this back in the living room,” Chris says firmly. “But we _are_ talking, whether you like it or not.”

There’s silence. Then more silence. Then:

“I… I made you uncomfortable,” Yuuri says to the kitchen counter.

“Yeah,” Chris says simply.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t,” Chris says with a sigh. “And I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying that it happened, and that’s why I had to stop.”

“Because I said something stupid,” Yuuri says bitterly. His shoulders are tight; his fingers have gone white with how hard he’s pressing them into the counter.

Oh, god, this man. Honestly, honestly, this man. Chris takes a deep breath and lets it out again, because he will _not_ scream at the ceiling in frustration. He will not. He is here to be _helpful_ and _useful_ to Yuuri, and screaming at the ceiling is neither of those things.

“No,” he says, when he trusts himself to sound kind again. “Because you said something I didn’t expect, and I was afraid you meant it.”

Yuuri looks up at him and, oh yeah, there’s that glare again. “So what if I did mean it?”

“So, pain for pain’s sake and pain for punishment’s sake are two really different things,” Chris explains patiently. “I thought you were asking me for the first one.”

“I was. I told you.”

“Maybe at first,” Chris says. “Did the scene change for you?”

God, he hopes the answer is yes. He really, really hopes it is. The alternative—that Yuuri was misleading him, _intentionally_ , right from the start—hardly bears thinking about.

There’s a long silence. Chris holds his breath. This is his friend. Yuuri is his friend. He is here to take care of him. And he will. No matter what the answer is.

Finally, Yuuri crumples. Closes his eyes and bends his neck and probably the counter turns into the only thing that’s holding him upright. A sob escapes him.

“He looked so _weak_ ,” is the first thing he manages to say. “When they… when we went… and saw…”

He doesn’t finish, but Chris knows what he’s talking about. When Victor’s surgery was complete and he was taken into the recovery room, a nurse had come to fetch Yuuri, who insisted that Chris accompany him. They were allowed to see Victor, to see in person that he was all right and that the surgery was successful. Victor had been awake, but barely. They’d started him on painkillers, strong ones, and the combination of that plus the anesthetic not having worn off yet added up to a Victor who was loopier than Chris had ever seen him. _Including_ when they tried mushrooms together, that one time in London, something like ten years ago.

“I know,” Chris says, even though he isn’t quite sure where Yuuri is going with this. “It was hard to see, wasn’t it?”

“He was all wrong,” Yuuri says. “He didn’t see me. His—his eyes, and… his _skin_ was wrong.”

“He’ll be better tomorrow,” Chris tells him. “Once the anesthetic’s out of his system, he’ll be back to looking normal.”

“He was _ugly_ ,” Yuuri says. “And I… I…”

Chris doesn’t know whether to be amused or just plain relieved. Is this why Yuuri thought he needed to be punished? For thinking his husband looked ugly? Chris thought that, too. Anesthesia isn’t kind to anyone’s face. Everyone looks like a droopy mess of skin and bones. Even Victor Nikiforov.

But Yuuri goes on: “And I could see he was hurting. He was… he was in so much pain, and I’d just spent the whole day thinking… just…”

Chris moves closer. Just a few small steps. Maybe if Victor were here, he’d know whether or not to touch Yuuri’s shoulder right now. Whether or not to draw him into a hug, whether it would help or hurt. Chris doesn’t know. He _hates_ that he doesn’t know.

“Thinking what?” he asks, feeling helpless.

Yuuri takes a few long, shaky breaths—and then, finally, he straightens himself up again. Towel still snug around his waist, he meets Chris’s eyes. “Can I tell you something?”

 _Yes, please, for the love of all things holy, tell me something, tell me absolutely anything_ , is what Chris sure as fuck does _not_ say.

What he does say is, “Yeah, of course.”

“I spent all day right on the edge of a panic attack,” Yuuri says. Chris nods, because he knows. He saw. He was there. He was the one who kept making Yuuri breathe. Yuuri continues: “It was so exhausting. And… and I started getting mad at him. Like, you know, how dare he get this surgery that he desperately needs. It makes my anxiety flare up, so how dare he!” Yuuri lets out a humorless laugh. “What kind of person am I, thinking that?”

Fuck it. Chris goes to Yuuri and hugs him tight, because he’s pretty sure that nobody in the history of humanity has ever needed a hug more than Yuuri does now. So, yeah, he hugs the shit out of Yuuri. And he replies, “An honest one.”

“An asshole,” counters Yuuri, his voice ringing loud and sure in Chris’s ear. “I’m a contender for the Worst Husband Ever award.”

“Or you’re an _honest person_ ,” Chris insists. “Come on, do you really think everyone in that waiting room was thinking nothing but pure and selfless thoughts the whole day? While they waited for _hours_ and ate shitty hospital food and drank too much coffee?”

“Well… I mean…”

“You want to know what I was thinking about all day?” Chris asks. He loosens the hug, just enough that he can pull back and see Yuuri’s face again.

Yuuri’s expression grows suspicious. “Um. Sex?”

“Good guess,” Chris says, rolling his eyes. “But, believe it or not, no. I spent all day thinking about what a good and noble and selfless person I was for being at the hospital with you.”

Yuuri’s laughter erupts out of him so fast that he looks surprised by it.

“See?” Chris says. “Now who’s the asshole?”

“Definitely still me,” Yuuri says, as his laughter begins to subside. “So, yes. That’s the answer to your question. Yes, the scene changed, because I started thinking about that, and, and…”

“And when you were thinking about that and feeling me hit you, it added up to punishment?” Chris guesses.

Yuuri hesitates. Then: “Something like that. Yeah.”

Chris makes one more guess. Something he’s been suspecting since he saw Yuuri’s complete lack of arousal when he got up. No—something he started suspecting long before that, even if he hadn’t wanted to see it. There’d been so many red flags, now that Chris really lets himself think about it.

He says, “Because you didn’t like getting hit.”

Yuuri blinks. And averts his eyes. “It’s… I mean, you’re very _good_ at it… I just…”

“You don’t have to stroke my ego, lovely,” Chris says with a laugh. “I know I’m good at it. That doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, Yuuri whispers, “I kind of hated it.”

“All right!” says Chris, letting Yuuri go so he can raise his arms in victory. “Good! This is good information.”

“I mean, I really, really hated it,” Yuuri says, with more feeling. “Victor always says he feels so _loved_ when I hit him like that—or when you and I hit him together. I mean… I mean, _how_? How is that possible?”

Chris laughs. “Different people like different things.”

Yuuri blows out a sigh of frustration. “I know, I know, I don’t mean _how_. I just mean… like…” He makes a frustrated gesture, fingers spread wide. “ _How_?”

Chris just laughs harder.

“Shut up, you know what I mean,” says Yuuri, except now he’s laughing, too. Laughing so hard, in fact, that it shakes his towel loose. It drops to the floor, leaving him naked again.

Yuuri moves to pick up the towel, but Chris is having none of _that_ , thank you very much. He stays Yuuri with a hand on his chest—and then, when Yuuri doesn’t shy away or tell him to stop, he moves it lower. Down Yuuri’s chest, over Yuuri’s hip and the muscular thigh below it. His body follows, and soon Chris is pinning the dropped towel down with his knees. He looks up at Yuuri, who is watching him with wide eyes.

Scooping Yuuri’s dick up in one hand, Chris brings it to his lips and places a quick kiss on the soft, velvety flesh. “There you are, my darling,” he tells it. “I’ve missed you.”

“ _Chris_ ,” Yuuri says. It comes out squeaky.

“Yuuri,” Chris replies, grinning up at Yuuri’s rapidly reddening face, still holding Yuuri’s dick in his open palm. “Will you let me suck you off?”

And with this question, Chris feels Yuuri start to breathe a little easier. He feels something being mended. This is familiar, and comfortable, and comforting: being on his knees, asking for permission, waiting for Yuuri to tell him yes or no. Maybe it’s not all they’ll ever do together—maybe they _will_ try switching again sometime—but for now, it’s more than enough.

“Yes,” Yuuri says. “Yes, but only if you let me take care of you first. Let’s go back into the living room.”

It’s not an order, but Chris still treats it like one. He gets up and hands Yuuri his towel, and together they leave the kitchen again. Yuuri sits him down on the couch, takes his face in both hands, and kisses him deeply. 

“You _are_ a good and noble and selfless person for coming all the way here,” he tells Chris, brown eyes shining with mirth. And as Chris laughs, Yuuri slides down his body until _he’s_ the one kneeling. He undoes the button of Chris’s jeans, and Chris lifts his hips up so Yuuri can slide them over his ass. He leaves them there, around Chris’s thighs, trapping his legs together. Only then does he pull down Chris’s underwear.

He doesn’t take it all the way off. Just pulls the front down and hooks the waistband under Chris’s balls—and Chris groans at the sudden shift in pressure. Chris’s cock, which has gone a _very long time_ without attention, begins to leak even before the first swipe of Yuuri’s tongue.

And, oh, Yuuri’s tongue. It dances along the head of Chris’s cock, blunt and precise by turns. Teasing him, then drowning him in sensation, all without so much as _touching_ the shaft. And Chris realizes that that’s on purpose. It’s so Chris can see. Yuuri, in his own way, is putting on as much of a show for him as Victor ever has.

It works, too. Within minutes, Chris warns Yuuri that he’s close—and _that’s_ when Yuuri envelops Chris within his mouth. He sucks, and he sucks, and Chris comes with one hand in Yuuri’s hair and the other on the back of his neck. Yuuri spits into the towel instead of swallowing. Chris doesn’t mind at all.

Yuuri rises, then, climbing into Chris’s lap, straddling him. And when he kisses Chris through the last aftershocks of his orgasm, Chris can still taste himself in Yuuri’s mouth.

“Thank you, lovely,” Chris murmurs into Yuuri’s lips. Not bothering to tuck himself back into his underwear, he asks, “Now tell me what I can do for you.”

Yuuri adjusts his knees, settling into what seems like a more comfortable position. A position, too, in which Chris can feel that Yuuri has finally begun to harden. They are pressed together, hips to chest, and Yuuri replies, “Your hand. Give me your hand.”

So Chris reaches down, wraps his hand around Yuuri’s dick, and begins to stroke him. They kiss, delicately at first, then more and more messily—and as Yuuri approaches the edge, he bends his head and buries his face in Chris’s neck. Chris can feel every little moan and groan vibrating into his skin, echoing through his veins. When Yuuri finally comes, silent but for a nearly inaudible _ah-ah-ah_ , Chris can feel, in the depths of his bones, the tremors that erupt in Yuuri’s body, trapping him in a maelstrom of sensation, and then freeing him once again.

Yuuri collapses, boneless, panting. Chris holds him there, stroking his back, listening to the beat of his heart.

Chris had assumed Yuuri wouldn’t want sex tonight, after everything else. That he wouldn’t need that moment of letting go, of relaxing, of freeing himself from worrying about Victor for just a few minutes. Why? Why had he ever thought that Yuuri would be so different from Victor—or from himself?

“How are you feeling?” Chris asks.

Yuuri stirs, but doesn’t get up. “Still sort of terrible. But… but also like I just got to come all over you, so, not the worst.”

Chris laughs low, running a hand through Yuuri’s hair. “Glad to know that my handjobs are not the worst. It’s always been my goal to give not-the-worst handjobs.”

Yuuri snorts, raising his head and meeting Chris’s eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says, and kisses him. “Thank you for being here.”

“Anytime,” Chris says with a smile, and is both pleased and relieved to find that he means it. He taps Yuuri’s hip with his hand. “Here, get off me. I’ll get something to clean us up.”

“I’ll do it,” Yuuri says, and climbs off of Chris.

As Chris watches Yuuri head for the kitchen yet again—this time not angry, though, and this time without a towel blocking Chris’s view of his _truly spectacular_ ass—he lets out a long, long sigh of relief. And pulls his pants and underwear the rest of the way off. No sense in leaving them on, at this point—and as strongly as Victor feels about asses on the furniture, well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

Besides, Chris would bet very good money that Victor has broken his own rule more than a few times.

There’s come on Chris’s shirt, so he takes that off, too. He leaves his socks on, though. And when Yuuri comes back, damp cloth in hand, Chris points to himself, then to Yuuri, and says brightly, “Matching outfits!”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “God, you’re as bad as Victor.”

“Considering you married him, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Yuuri shakes his head and inspects Chris. “Where…?”

“It was all on my shirt,” Chris replies.

“Oh,” says Yuuri, and begins to wipe himself clean.

Chris takes a moment to appreciate the movement of the dark green cloth over Yuuri’s golden-pale skin. Then he says, “Hey.”

Yuuri looks up. The smile on his face is half curious, half shy. “Hey.”

“You said before that you and Victor take turns,” Chris says. Yuuri nods, and Chris goes on: “I thought you meant with pain stuff. _Did_ you mean that, or…?”

Or did Chris misunderstand him? Or did Yuuri let him assume that and fail to correct him? Or, or, or?

Yuuri shakes his head. “Not pain stuff. I mean, when it’s me in charge, then yes. But when it’s the other way around, it’s more like…”

“Instructions,” Chris supplies, remembering what Yuuri said before. _I like not having to think, sometimes._

“And other things,” says Yuuri. He finishes using the cloth, folds it carefully, and sits beside Chris on the couch. Another bare ass on the cushions. Ha. “He’s been learning shibari, actually.” Yuuri gives Chris another one of those shy smiles. “He’s getting good at it.”

“And you don’t mind getting tied up?”

“I kind of like it,” Yuuri says softly. “It’s… it’s like he gets more… attentive, I guess? Even more than usual, if you can imagine that.”

“I definitely can’t,” Chris says truthfully. “Here, come here.” He pats his lap, beckoning Yuuri closer.

Chris meant for Yuuri to sit with him again, Yuuri’s back against Chris’s front, like before. But instead, Yuuri lies down, using Chris’s thighs as a pillow. Apparently he doesn’t mind that Chris’s dick is only inches away from his face. That, somehow, more than anything else they’ve done tonight, makes Chris’s heart skip. It’s… trust? Or something. Closeness, maybe?

He and Yuuri have never had this kind of closeness before.

There’s a quilt draped over the back of the couch. Yuuri, with the ease of someone who’s done this a million times before, reaches up and covers himself with it. Chris is sad about the loss of the view, but he doesn’t complain.

“How’s your ass?” he asks.

Yuuri laughs quietly. “A little sore. But fine.”

Chris smiles, running a hand idly through Yuuri’s hair. “All right, good. So tell me more. What does he do with you when he ties you up?”

“Usually he just teases me,” Yuuri replies, eyes fluttering closed, smile lingering on his face. “Makes me come, but takes his time doing it.”

“Yeah,” Chris says. He thinks he’d like to see that, sometime. But he’ll save the asking for later, when Victor is here with them again. When Victor has healed.

“But sometimes,” Yuuri goes on, “he just looks. Just ties me to the bed, or the couch, or a chair, and just… looks at me.”

Chris tries to picture it. Victor, keeping his hands off Yuuri for more than a few seconds at a time? Unlikely.

“That’s… that seems…” But he doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“Romantic,” Yuuri says softly. “Also, incredibly weird.”

Chris snorts. “That sounds about right.”

Yuuri opens his eyes again, looking up at Chris. “Seriously, it’s so weird. You have no idea how weird it is. I mean, I _like_ it? But it’s so weird. Victor is _so weird_.”

“Tell me about it,” Chris mutters, running his nails lightly over Yuuri’s scalp.

“Mmmm,” says Yuuri, stretching his neck a little, pushing into the touch. “Did he do weird stuff like that with you, too? Back then?”

“Not specifically that, no,” replies Chris. “But different weird stuff, definitely.”

“Like what?” Yuuri asks.

“Like…” Chris thinks for a second. It was all so long ago, and it’s all kind of blurred together in his head. A giant Chris-and-Victor-shaped blur of naked body parts and hotel rooms and beaches and sweat and threesomes with strangers and taking themselves far too seriously sometimes and not seriously enough sometimes and… “Like when he used to sprawl on top of me and fall asleep like that and then get _really annoyed_ at me if I had to wake him up to move him,” Chris says.

Yuuri grins. “That’s not even weird. He does that all the time. Maybe it’d be weird for someone else, but for him that’s practically normal.”

“Good point,” says Chris. “Hmm. He used to like to go to sleep without cleaning up first. We’d wake up sticky and gross the next morning, and he’d just love it—”

“That’s—yeah, yup. He still does that.” Yuuri laughs quietly. “I’m starting to like it, actually. Does that make me weird, too?”

“Yes, it does,” Chris says fondly, smiling down at Yuuri. “What about the tongue thing? Does he still do that?”

“He does many tongue things,” Yuuri deadpans. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The, you know, the concentrating-tongue thing. Anytime he used his hands on me instead of his mouth, he’d do that thing…” Chris does his best impression of Victor concentrating: brows drawn together, eyes laser-focused on Yuuri—and tongue poking out of the side of his mouth, like a little kid.

Yuuri cracks up. “No! Oh god, no, I’ve never seen him do that. That’s so cute.” Chris just grins, and Yuuri continues: “Hey, did he leave the door open with you?”

“The door?” Chris echoes, confused.

“Back when, ah, he still had Makkachin,” Yuuri says.

“Ohh, Makkachin,” Chris says. “What a sweet little dog he was.”

“ _Little_ ,” Yuuri says with a laugh.

“But yes, oh god, yes,” Chris says. “He’d always leave the door open. Like, hey, take your pants off, hope you don’t mind if my dog watches us.”

“ _Thank_ you!” Yuuri says, looking fiercely vindicated. “It took me _months_ to train him to shut the door. Victor, I mean. Not Makka.”

“‘But Chris, I can’t just shut him out! It’s his apartment too,’” Chris says, in his best St. Petersburg accent, which is also his worst St. Petersburg accent. “No, Vitya, sweetheart, no, it’s not. Your dog does not work for a living, and your dog does not pay the rent. I think he’ll be fine.”

Yuuri is shaking with laughter by now. “There was this one time, we were in the middle of—I can’t even remember what we were doing, it doesn’t matter—and suddenly there’s Makka’s wet nose, right against my side—”

“He was a _dog_ , you know? And dogs like shoving their noses in people’s crotches! You think that’s going to _change_ when I’m not wearing anything?”

“I literally had to give him a speech, Chris. A speech. About how I loved him and Makkachin in _very different ways_.”

“And there was one time, Victor’s on the bed, I’m on the floor. Kneeling, you know, and Makka comes over and starts licking the soles of my feet.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Yuuri says. He’s laughing so hard that his face is starting to turn red. “Not your feet! Victor must’ve been so jealous.”

“What?” says Chris.

“You know.” Yuuri makes a vague, expansive gesture with one hand. “His thing about feet. He’s got that thing. About feet.”

“He’s got a thing about _your_ feet,” says Chris.

Yuuri’s laughter starts to ebb away, and he looks up at Chris with a question in his eyes.

So Chris clarifies: “I don’t think he had a foot thing before he met you.”

“I…” Yuuri blinks. “Oh. Oh, okay.”

Yuuri sits up, then, leaving Chris’s lap suddenly cold. He pulls his knees up to his chest; it doesn’t help much, but at least his dick won’t shrivel up.

But then, Yuuri straightens out the quilt and offers him half, like it’s nothing. Like he does this all the time—and maybe he does. Chris feels suddenly, absurdly grateful to be on the receiving end of Yuuri’s offer. It’s just a blanket, but it’s… intimate, somehow. In a totally different way than how sex is intimate.

He takes it and covers himself. The room is hushed. After a second, Yuuri reaches over and puts his hand on Chris’s knee.

And Chris doesn’t know how to respond to that. Yuuri doesn’t seem to _want_ anything from him. It’s just contact, plain and simple.

But before he can figure it out, Yuuri says, “It’s late. I should shower, and at least _try_ to sleep.”

“Same,” Chris says. “You go ahead. I’ll wash the tea mugs.”

Yuuri nods. Then pauses, just for the space of a single breath. Then he leans over and kisses Chris. Kisses him on the _cheek_ , which, what?

“Shower with me?” Yuuri says.

His eyes are doing this… this thing. He looks hesitant, maybe, or hopeful. Or scared? Chris honestly doesn’t know. What he does know, though, is that sharing a shower—which he and Victor have done on many occasions—almost always leads to more sex. Someone will get a slippery, soapy hand job, or someone will get down on his knees and start sucking, or someone will bend over and brace his hands against the tiles.

And Chris doesn’t want any of those things right now. He wants to stay right here, under this blanket, in the quiet warmth that’s somehow fallen over the room.

“I took one this morning,” he replies truthfully. “I’m fine.”

Something flits across Yuuri’s face—disappointment? relief?—but it’s gone before Chris can see for sure what it is. He gets up, gives Chris one more quick smile, and heads for the bathroom. Chris watches him go, and tries to leer at his ass as he walks away. He gathers up Yuuri’s half of the quilt, and tries to be glad that he has it all for himself now.

He tries to enjoy the quiet… but there’s nothing left to enjoy. There’s nothing warm or intimate or comforting about sitting here by himself. It all left when Yuuri did. And he wants it back.

Throwing the quilt aside, Chris pads barefoot across the living room floor and down the hall, toward the bathroom. Yuuri has left the door cracked open. The sound of running water comes from inside.

“Yuuri?” he says, pushing the door just a little further open.

Yuuri’s head pokes around the shower wall. “…Yeah?”

Chris is used to being naked. It is his preferred state of being. But he somehow feels more naked than usual when he asks, in a voice far softer than he’d intended it to be, “Can I change my mind?”

A shy smile brightens Yuuri’s face. He says, “Come in.”

There’s no tub to step into, because everything in Victor’s apartment—Victor and Yuuri’s apartment, these days—is shiny and expensive and state-of-the-art, including the bathroom. The shower is just a quarter of the room, partitioned off by a thin glass wall, with a floor that has just enough of an incline that water slides into the drain instead of everywhere else. It’s sleek and efficient, but not as cozy as the tub-with-a-curtain-around-it situation that Chris has at home.

Not as cozy as two naked bodies under a quilt, either.

Still, Chris steps around the shower wall, onto the inclined floor. Yuuri hands him a cloth, already soaped up. “Do my back?” he says.

Chris takes the cloth, grateful to have a task. He sets to work, scrubbing soap across Yuuri’s back. Yuuri sighs audibly into the pressure of it, and Chris moves lower. He massages Yuuri’s lower back with the cloth, and his ass, and…

…and here’s where things usually take a turn. Chris’s hands usually start wandering, seeking heat, giving pleasure. He could dip a finger into the valley between Yuuri’s cheeks. He could reach around to wash Yuuri’s belly and _accidentally_ brush a hand against his cock. He could do any number of things—and, usually, he would.

Instead, he swipes the cloth lower, washing the backs of Yuuri’s thighs, his knees, his calves, his ankles.

He stops there, crouching on the tiled floor. He isn’t allowed to go below the ankles. It’s never been a problem for him; it’s Victor, not Chris, who has the thing about Yuuri’s feet. But right now, he resents the rule. He wants to finish the job Yuuri gave him.

But Victor isn’t here, and so he can’t ask for an exception to be made. And so he can’t touch.

“Feet,” he tells Yuuri. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Yuuri. “I’ve already done them.”

So Chris stands again, slowly, letting the cloth lead the way. And when it’s worked its way back up to the nape of Yuuri’s neck, Chris’s mouth follows, pressing a warm kiss to the very top of his spine.

“Thank you,” says Yuuri, and makes a move like he’s about to turn around.

But Chris doesn’t let him. Chris wraps his arms around Yuuri from behind, holding him now like he held him on the couch earlier. One hand on his belly, one hand over his heart. He presses his face into Yuuri’s shoulder, and he presses his chest against Yuuri’s back, and his dick is pleased at the sudden soapy slide of Yuuri’s skin against it, but Chris doesn’t even _care_ , which is just _stupid_.

Chris _always_ cares.

After a moment of staying still and letting himself be held, Yuuri asks softly, “Everything okay?”

Chris shuts his eyes, like maybe he’ll be able to think more clearly, to actually think at all, if he can’t see anything. But all he can see is this, two people standing beneath a spray of hot water, over and over again. It’s Victor in Yuuri’s place. Or it’s Victor in Chris’s place. Or it’s Chris and Yuuri, just like now, or it’s all three of them. They would fit. They could do this, all three of them. They could _keep doing this_ , maybe for years, maybe forever—

And what the _fuck_ is he thinking? This isn’t some polyamorous domestic-bliss happily-ever-after situation. Victor and Yuuri are the real couple, here. They’re the ones with the epic love story that got coverage on every sports channel in the world, and a wedding that got a six-page spread in _Vogue Italia_. Chris might be a partner to both of them, and he might love both of them, and, hell, both of them might even love _him_ —but he’s got no illusions about his status in this apartment.

This apartment, where Victor and Yuuri live, and where Chris does not.

Which is fine. It’s fine. Chris has his own place. He’s got a dozen people he could call up if he needs a spur-of-the-moment weekend fling, and two dozen more if all he needs is a quick fuck. He’s got enough money that it’ll be a few more years before he has to think about work. He’s got a reputation for being good in bed, and he knows how to talk dirty in eight different languages. He’s got everything he’s ever wanted.

But.

“Chris?” Yuuri says. Oh, right. A question. Is everything okay.

No. Everything is not okay. Chris has the perfect life. He should be happy. He shouldn’t suddenly be wondering what it would be like to have _more_.

What he says, though, is, “I’m just glad you wanted me to stay.” And it’s not a lie. But it’s not an answer, either.

Yuuri turns in his arms, smooth as a seal, and puts his hands on Chris’s cheeks. “I’m glad you did,” he says, and kisses him. It’s a slow kiss. Shallow. Lips without tongue. Not the kind of kiss that’s intended to lead to other things. Not the kind of kiss Chris usually _likes_ , even. But he leans into it, and keeps it going for as long as he can.

“Let me make you breakfast tomorrow,” he says breathlessly, when Yuuri finally pulls away. “Will you let me?”

Yuuri blinks at him. Brushes his wet hair back with one hand. “You cook?”

Only a little. Only simple things. But still.

“Yeah. I cook.”

Yuuri gives him a long look. “We have to be there early tomorrow. I want to be the first one in the door when visiting hours start.”

It’s astonishingly casual, the way Yuuri brings up the hospital. So casual that Chris nearly thinks, for a split second, he’s talking about something else. Maybe he really _has_ made a difference tonight.

He nods. “I’ll make sure that happens. Just… just let me make you breakfast first. I’ll get up before you. Do you have eggs?”

“Yes,” says Yuuri. And then, a heartbeat later, “Chris, are you sure you’re okay?”

Exactly the opposite. Chris is very sure that he isn’t okay at all, because somehow, in the past hour or so, he has managed to turn into a _completely different person_. The kind of person who wants… whatever the fuck he suddenly finds himself wanting.

He nods.

“Because if this is about before…” Yuuri sighs, then bends over to turn the water off. “Listen, I’m really sorry. I should’ve told you to stop.”

“It’s all right,” says Chris, and absolutely means it. “I should’ve figured it out sooner, too.”

He should have figured out a lot of things sooner. He should have known he was taking the spanking scene with Yuuri a little too far. He should have known that letting himself love Victor Nikiforov again was a bad idea. He should have known, and he should have stopped it sooner.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Yuuri says. “You did what you could, and I… just… just, thank you.”

He could stop it now. Right now. He could be the asshole who gets a hotel room and leaves Yuuri all alone in this too-expensive apartment while his husband is in the hospital. He could fly out tomorrow morning instead of making breakfast. He could avoid St. Petersburg and all this closeness for the rest of his life.

“Sure thing,” Chris says, trying to sound casual. He reaches for a towel, then hands it to Yuuri. “Still. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“I’m not,” Yuuri says, as he begins to dry himself.

“You’re not?” Chris grabs another towel for himself. “I thought you didn’t like it.”

“Well, _now_ I know that,” Yuuri says. “But if I hadn’t tried it, I’d still be wondering. You know?”

Chris thinks of that night in Paris, nearly six months ago. He thinks of Yuuri pulling him aside in the club, telling him what Victor wanted them to do. He remembers confessing to Yuuri, in the cab, just in the interest of full disclosure, that he still had feelings for Victor. He remembers the tiny part of himself that expected, maybe even _hoped_ , that his confession would make Yuuri call the whole thing off.

But Yuuri had only smiled and said, “I don’t blame you. And if it helps, I kind of think he might feel the same way.”

“I do know,” Chris says now. “I definitely do.”

“Thought you might,” says Yuuri, and finishes toweling his hair off. “Do you want the guest room tonight?”

The guest room. Yes. He should take some time for himself, before tomorrow comes and they go to the hospital again and Victor comes home and they’re both consumed with taking care of him. He should slow down and think, before he says something stupid. Before he _does_ something stupid.

“That depends,” he finds himself saying instead. “Do you want to sleep alone tonight?”

“I… no.” Yuuri smiles, shy and nervous and irresistible. “Not really, no.”

The scene is set. Chris has committed to his role. He is naked, bent over the arm of a couch, and waiting for the next blow to strike. He can stop it, or he can slow it down. He can say _red_. He can say _yellow._

But maybe the next blow won’t hurt as much, right? Maybe he’ll get used to it after enough time. And if he doesn’t stay long enough to find out, then how will he ever know?

“Your room it is,” Chris says.

So Yuuri takes his hand, and leads him to the bedroom.

 _Green_ , Chris thinks, and lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> Before you ask...
> 
> 1\. Yes, I do plan on writing another story in this series, in which Chris actually has to deal with all these Feelings he's been having.  
> 2\. Yes, Victor makes a full recovery and is totally fine.  
> 3\. Yes, I love comments. ;)


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